Staring at the Ceiling
by hyacinthian
Summary: And she thinks, maybe there's a chance he's looking at the same one she is. [CadmanMcKay]


A/N: This is angsty, unrequited CadmanMcKay with some CarsonCadman thrown in for good measure. In other words, have fun, drop a line, etc. etc.

* * *

Orange light glimmers spectacularly as it caresses the horizon, allowing its warm rays to drip onto the expansive ocean. She stands on one of Atlantis' plentiful balconies, a mug of coffee sandwiched between two cold hands. She breathes it in, the peace, tranquility, and calm associated with the sea. And just like her life, she knows that beneath that aura of good feeling lingers an undertow of dangerous proportions. 

The morning is beginning to fade as fast as she can drink her coffee, and so she takes one last look, drinking the beauty in, and heads back inside. There's work to be done, enemies to be killed, blood to be spilled, all that. It's the story of her life. As she heads back inside, brain heavy with her overflowing thoughts, she clumsily bumps into someone, and quick rattles off an apology. She looks him, and finds _him_. It's his eyes that greet her first. They are literally startled pools of cerulean, almost like the color of the sea, and she feels like she's melting into them, falling into the sea.

"Watch where you're going," he grumbles. There's something about them though, some air of lingering awkwardness that makes them both feel uncomfortable. She just bares her teeth at him in a grin that seems threatened to shatter and fall apart within seconds, and he just shakes his head in contempt. They're doing a dance that they've always done, but somehow, their hearts aren't into it anymore. She gets up eventually and heads her own way, but she can't get that image out of her head. That picture of serenity, the eyes, and the utter antithetical nature they possess towards their owner.

Hours later, she finds herself leaning against the table, trying to solve some form of a scientific equation that their lives apparently rest on but isn't all _that _urgent. A pencil is caught between her index and middle fingers and her nervousness is manifesting itself. She's been tapping her pencil for who knows how long, and she's only become aware of it when Simpson tells her to stop it or she'll shove her in a supply closet with Kavanaugh and lock them in there for five hours. She relents.

But it's those eyes that bother her, disturb her. She was inside him, and she's certainly used to his thoughts and his processes, and his habits, but she never thought she'd feel this…this feeling of withdrawal almost. It's almost as if she's a heroin addict who's recently been to detox. She feels strange, detached. It's almost like she isn't herself, like there's a part of her missing, and she knows where it is, but it's just out of her reach, and she can never attain it. It's infuriating.

She's Laura Cadman. She's never been this distracted before. And it bothers her…to no end. To be distracted by distraction itself is…absolutely absurd. It lacks any notion of sense. But it doesn't matter. She throws her hair behind her shoulder, sticks the pencil behind her ear, and starts nibbling at her nails. It's a bad habit. A horrible one. An unhealthy one. But she does it anyway.

She wanders down to the infirmary to check up on Carson and see if he's busy because they're "dating." She doesn't want to call it that because, for some reason, she isn't feeling the sparks that she thought she would feel when she's with him, but she's there anyway. She's usually honest, but when she's with him, all the rules go out the window. She has a good time with him, but it's not the same as being _in love_, or at least thinking that she's in love. The psychotic obsession that consumes her isn't present. Something's lacking. And it's not at all his fault. It's just—the chemistry isn't there. But she goes down anyway to continue participating in this pretense of a relationship, but he's down there with a patient. So she stands in the doorway, small wisps of hair beginning to slip from behind her ears. He spots her and makes a gesture for her to come in. But she's comfortable there, so she shakes her head.

His patient turns around and eyes her. She tries to make no secret of the fact that she's a bit shocked. It's not a patient. It's the genius, Rodney McKay. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, basically, her everyday reaction to him. His eyes linger on her image for a moment, and she feels the slightest flutter inside her heart, the slightest glimmer of happiness in her monochromatic world. They begin to talk animatedly, and Rodney turns to leave. She reaches out, letting her fingertips graze his arm, simply because she knows it annoys him so much. And…a bit for her own benefit.

As soon as he leaves, she saunters over to Carson in that way that she does, smiling prettily and coquettishly. She feels odd, like she's a crucial role in a play that shouldn't be done. Something bad. But she shakes her head, and asks him if he wants to eat together tonight. He nods his head, and mumbles something to himself rapidly, his Scottish accent veiling his words under a shroud of confusion.

So they have dinner that night in the cafeteria, as expected. Which basically translates to…they sat at the same table. It seems very juvenile, but it works for them. And it seems to be working for everybody else too. But he's lonely and she's lonely, so when he leans in to kiss her, she's not complaining. They end up blindly stumbling down the hallway, her half laughing as she tries to find her room, and him focusing his attention on her.

And she's not aware that when they stand at her door for three minutes or so, there's another pair of eyes on them. She's not aware that he's standing there, fixated by the look of her in her wanton glory, just as Carson. She doesn't realize that maybe he's been missing her, needing her too. And they both fail to realize that they want each other so much. He just needs to touch her skin, feel her beneath him. But it's impossible. There's no way. So he's content to watch and feel his heart breaking, and hope to keep the pieces together beneath the veneer of his arrogance.

Afterwards, she lays there in bed, staring at the ceiling, and listening to silence. If she strains enough, she feels that she can hear the lap of the waves against the enormous structure. And somehow, even after something that should be intimate and should be embraced, she just feels empty and hollow. All she can do is breathe, and try to ignore the fact that Carson's fast asleep and snoring loudly next to her. All she can do—all she will do is stare—stare at the ceiling, and make a vain wish that _he's _staring at the same ceiling with her.


End file.
